Stealing Her (Covet 1)

Chapter Twenty-Eight

ISOBEL

He didn’t touch me.

And for some reason all I kept focusing on was the damn tattoo on his hand. I lay next to a man I was going to marry in five days, and the more time I spent with him, the more concerned I was that something was going on.

And the more I didn’t want to know.

Did that make me a monster?

A horrible person?

For wanting to squeeze my eyes shut, hum loudly, and pretend that this was forever, that Julian was himself again, that he didn’t care about the money, the fame, the power, that finally Edward would step down and let us live our lives.

I wasn’t stupid.

Edward had controlled everything about our lives since college. Why would he stop now?

And why the hell was Julian visiting this Bridge person and keeping it a secret? I wanted to demand answers, but I was also a coward. Because I was enjoying him so much I was afraid that if I asked the question, he’d revert back to the man he was before the accident.

It was stupid.

But it was still there. That sinking feeling.

I turned on my side and put my hand on Julian’s back and then jerked it away. There was another tattoo on his left shoulder. It was small, and looked tribal, or maybe it said something in a different language? Either way, he would have had to have someone use the Inkbox material on him rather than doing it himself, based on where it was located.

What the hell was going on?

I traced my fingers over the writing.

And felt my stomach sink to my knees when I felt the ridge from the ink.

His tattoo was real.

I knew every inch of him, even though sure, these last six months we hadn’t slept together a lot, mainly because I was still hurting from his actions. Would he really get a tattoo without telling me?

Furthermore, why would he lie about it?

I rubbed my fingers back and forth a few more seconds. It felt so foreign, his skin. My eyes traced down his insanely built body.

And in my soul, I knew there was something I was missing.

And I was transported back to the day of the accident, when all I wanted was to be set free from this life, from the control. When I was thankful that he was in a coma, when I realized that I was just as bad as the Tennysons, because I wasn’t praying for a miracle. I was praying for freedom.

I sighed when Julian turned over and faced me, his eyes sleepy, his smile casual. “Can’t sleep?”

“Why did you get a tattoo without telling me?”

His face gave nothing away, but his body tensed, his biceps flexed, and I could see the tension in his shoulders as he stared me down. “I’m sorry?”

“Why would you be sorry? Does Inkbox even exist?” I was going to go crazy before the week was over. “I mean isn’t that something you would talk to your future wife about? ‘Hey, I’m permanently putting ink on my body’?”

He kissed my forehead and grabbed his phone, pulled up a website, and showed me. It said Inkbox, and true to his story, they had temporary tattoos that lasted close to three weeks so people didn’t have to commit.

“And you’re looking into purchasing them? Seems a bit off brand for us, don’t you think?” I was challenging him; I never challenged him, never questioned, because he never let me, he always ended the conversation first, he always asked me to be reasonable.

Not anymore. Instead, this old or new version, however I looked at it, wanted me to challenge him, welcomed my arguments as if anything else would be a disappointment.

“You’re right. It is off brand, but I think the brand is moving in a new direction, especially now that we have more control over what we can buy out.” He tucked my hair behind my ears and pressed a kiss to my nose. “You’re just exhausted.”

“Don’t patronize me!” I snapped. “This feels . . .” I shook my head. “I went into your office.”

No reaction.

No anger.

Nothing.

“And?” He tilted his head like it wasn’t a big deal.

It was suddenly getting hard to breathe in that room, in that bed. “You’re not mad?”

“Why would I be mad? You’re my other half.”

Things I would have killed to hear weeks ago, years ago.

“I knocked over a picture of us.” I was feeling hysterical. “You’ve put on at least ten pounds of muscle since then, maybe more. Your smile is different. It tilts to the right not the left. You have tattoos, three that I can see, that I’ve never seen before. And you’re . . . you’re . . .” Tears filled my eyes. “You’re different. But you see me. And now I think I’m losing my mind, and maybe I am, maybe after years of being under the Tennyson rule I’m just losing it all. We’re getting married in five days, and the man who went into that hospital is not the man who came out.”